♥ Site recommended story ♥

Brand spanking new fiction by your host, Rod Cayenne. All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly adults only!

Richard was a neighbour, and had been a member of the local fire brigade ever since leaving school. Our friendship had started during a scout “Bob-A-Job” week, with me polishing his fireman’s boots for him. It carried on long after that week though. In subsequent years I found I was still polishing his work boots for him most weeks, in return for some generous pocket money. I’d thought it quite strange how he’d ask me to come in my scout or school uniform, though. He assured me that I looked so much smarter like that than in casual wear. I guess he was right about that and I was happy to play along as long as he paid me.

I came to adore his boots. It turned into a bit of a fetish for me. I fantasised about his boots constantly. I imagined him naked apart from his black leather boots, dominating me. He was a tall, sexy single guy and one of my first teenage crushes.

I was 18 and horny, and I started to add an extra, secret ingredient to the polish – a little bit of my sperm. Generally I brought the spunk in from home in a little glass screwtop bottle and added drops of it to the polish as I worked on the shiny boots, if he wasn’t watching me. Very occasionally he would have to go out while I was there, and on those times, I’d usually manufacture a fresh supply by masturbating straight on to his boots. The jets of my hot cum would then be worked straight into the boots, with layers and layers of black polish on top. Then one day, he caught me just after I’d just manufactured a new load of the secret ingredient and was about to massage it into his boots, my school trousers and pants still pulled down!

“I can explain!” I cried, but of course, I couldn’t. The fresh spunk lying on the boots did all the talking for me. I rapidly hitched up my black pants and grey school trousers. Unfortunately, just at that moment, the glass bottle of sperm dropped from my trouser pocket onto the floor. Damn! He’d seen it!

“Aha,” he said as he held the small bottle up to the light, “A premeditated crime, I see. And just how long has this been going on?”

At that point I just wanted to die, or have the ground swallow me up. Shit! I had been caught. Caught bang to rights, defiling the shiny black leather of this generous friend of mine. I didn’t know what to say about it, so I just whispered in shame, “I love your boots.”

“Yes, I can see that, you dirty little boy! You haven’t answered my question though, have you? So let me check the facts here. You’ve been bringing a bottle of your spunk to work into my boots? And today you’ve not even used its contents, instead you’ve jerked straight onto my boots.” He’d worked it all out. Every sordid detail. “And I’ve been paying you for this dubious pleasure! Well, more fool me. Now, what will your parents say when I tell them what you’ve been up to?”

This time I had to be more vocal! I begged and begged him not to tell them. My face was red with embarrassment. I felt as if I’d burst into tears at any moment, or piss myself with shame.

“Well, I could punish you myself, I suppose. But no! It’s not my place to do that.”

“But your Dad doesn’t beat you in the biblical manner? ‘Cause that’s what you really deserve, you know.”

“No of course he doesn’t and yes, I guess I’ve been bad enough to deserve something like that.”

“Well, you’re in luck, in a manner of speaking. It just so happens that I have a strap and cane here. I had a rather awkward lodger who would only respond to a sore arse. I think maybe you’re the same. In fact, I know you’re the same. Get up the stairs!”

I soon found myself in the master bedroom of his two bed maisonette. He piled pillows in the middle of the pine king-size bed and made me mount them, after pulling down my school trousers and pants for me.

One thing was for sure, he knew how to make that leather strap sting like the blazes! It hurt and it burnt my tender bare teenage flesh. I was riding on crests of pain, but also mixed in was the first tingling of pleasure from the pain. I even had time to daydream idly about the possibility of working some of my spunk into the leather strap! I wondered if he’d let me? It seemed appropriate somehow, LOL. A noisy and particularly sharp blow brought me back down to earth however, terminating all pervy thoughts, at least for a while. I wasn’t counting, but I reckon there were about twenty blows in all. I was relieved when the beating stopped. What had started as fairly mild discipline had soon escalated into a festival of sadism. The last blows had broken me, and rare tears trickled down my face.

“There! I hope that leathering has taught you to never weaken good leather by spunking on it. I’m disgusted by all of this you know! Really disgusted. Even I wasn’t like this at your age. Anyway, now, it’s time for some extra punishment for making me pay you good money for your depravity.”

“What? No, really Richard, I can’t take anymore!”

“I’m afraid lad that my cane always gets used once I’ve got it out from it secret lair! Let me assure you, no naughty boy leaves my house uncaned! I’m going to be lenient, however. A quick six of the best should cure your emissions forever.”

Six strokes didn’t sound at all lenient to me! My arse was already pitifully sore. I heard him swooshing the cane through the air. He cackled with delight as he crashed the first stroke down onto my naked haunches. I’d never felt pain like it, of course. The cane was an order of magnitude worse than the leather strap. My poor abused arse twisted from left to right and back again as I tried in vain to avoid each burning stroke of the unforgiving rattan. He was true to his word, in that this extra beating was quick. But the pain! Oh God! I yelped and cried as my flesh was criss-crossed not with six but with eight stinging cuts. The bastard had given me two extra strokes, on the flimsy pretext that I’d been writhing in attempt to avoid my punishment. I heard him drop the cane and then, as he moved closer to me, I heard him breathing heavily from the exertion of the beating.

Suddenly I felt the bell-end of his penis pushing against the entrance to my tight puckered anus. A little bit of cold lube and his sheathed monster was in me, thrusting and twisting. I loved it! He was an animal, a beast and a truly fantastic fucker. Never before had my virgin back passage known such pleasure. I knew we’d have to be doing this regularly in future. Yes, I loved it, and I could tell that he did too. I could even see the continuation of my undeclared income stream…

After coming noisily, he slapped my bare bottom and nibbled lovingly at my ear, whispering gently, “Now, anymore of this perverse nonsense, and I’ll take you down the fire station to show the lads your red arse! It’s their favourite colour, you know.”

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D I S C L A I M E R

All characters and businesses appearing in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Erotica by Rod Cayenne, repeated from 2013.

All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly adults only!

Maybe I shouldn’t have provoked him? It had been a good three years since he’d last caned me. Let’s see. Yes, I was just nineteen at the time. I’d been slacking at University and it had come to my father’s attention. Despite getting a full grant, I relied on my parents to help out financially as living in the city was really expensive.

It had been one of my ‘mates’ who’d told him. I never did find out which one shopped me, though there were a couple of prime suspects. I’d let slip to the gang that my father was a schoolteacher and a firm believer in the cane. They had obviously thought it was a laugh to grass me up. Still, it did buck up my ideas and I went on to achieve a respectable 2.1, better than some of the other gang members.

Well, here we were three years later. A dozen red raw cane stripes were decorating my bottom. They hurt me badly as I sat down on the toilet seat. I could have hovered, I suppose, but that would have been just too demeaning. The hot stripes throbbed on the cold, cold toilet seat.

I’d imagined fondly that my father would have thrown that beastly cane away, at least by the time I’d graduated. I was wrong! It had been hibernating in the extra-wide desk drawer it had always been kept in. He told me that he oiled it regularly with finest linseed oil. I thought that was a rather strange revelation, as I bent over the desk, lowering jeans and pants submissively. It was almost as if he’d been planning to use it in anger again. The beating when it came was hard, relentless and shaming.

So what had brought this on? Well, drink was to blame, no doubt about that. That and my own stupidity. I’d got up to use the bathroom at about 5 in the morning, and had left a Kleenex full of spunk on the side of the bath accidentally, instead of flushing it away. Fortunately, mother was on an overnight shift at the hospital, so the next person to use the bathroom was my father. Of course, he discovered my carelessness.

That fateful day he was ‘working from home’ in his study. He summoned me in and produced the offending item, which had pretty much dried out by then. He held it in a pair of tweezers as if it was infected, or some piece of forensic evidence. He made me feel so ashamed.

“What on earth would have happened if your mother had found this?” he asked. “She might have thought I’d been jacking off in the bathroom when all along it was yours!”

It was a good point. I hadn’t left it on purpose, of course. In fact, I’d been so drunk while I was masturbating that I was surprised I’d been able to cum at all. Anyway, his face was red with anger, and mine was red with embarrassment.

“It’s time you got yourself a nice girlfriend and settled down, instead of playing with yourself like some teenager. Now then Vincent, what are you going to do to make it up to me?” Dad had asked. He wasn’t angling, I think. It was a kind of rhetorical question. I could tell that he was annoyed with me, as that was the only time he ever used my unabbreviated name.

Somewhat foolishly, and still hungover, I’d said to him, “It’s a shame you don’t have a cane any more. That would have cleared the air.” It must have been the association of his study with past canings that had made me blurt this out.

It was just at that time that he produced the old cane from its hiding place. My jaw dropped as he said, “What a good idea!”

My fate was sealed. It had been a long time. He swished the cane menacingly but with a big grin on his face. Right then, I’d like to have slapped it, but I was the one in for a stinging caress. It was almost as if he was going to enjoy it! When I was a lad, he’d always carried out my beatings with the most grim of expressions. Now, there was a sickening grin, which was even more humiliating, strangely enough. It was as if he’d trapped me, but in truth my downfall was all my own fault.

The dozen strokes he dished out hurt like hell. It was the most savage beating I’d ever had from him. Maybe he’d decided to make it harder to cut through my hangover and make a real impression? Believe me, twelve vicious strokes was ample! However, as I sat on the white plastic toilet seat a little later, a not unpleasant glow spread around my buttocks. Perhaps it hadn’t been so bad after all? In fact, perhaps it had been a little bit pleasurable? My cock stirred and forced itself into my waiting hand. Yes, I told myself, it hadn’t been too bad, and it was a bit of a turn-on! As I wanked away, I promised myself I’d get another caning off him. If all else failed, I could always leave another Kleenex in the bathroom to secure some more discipline! My mind was racing, and I resolved to talk to him. I left it until the following day, just to be sure my feelings hadn’t been clouded by the hangover.

He was in his study, packing his briefcase. Obviously, that day he was going to be heading to his city office at some stage.

“Dad, we need to talk. Thank you for caning me yesterday. It was embarrassing and it really hurt me, but I deserved it for being so stupid and so, so thoughtless. I don’t want you to feel guilty or to worry that I’m too old for discipline. My friend Joe still gets it from his father and he’s twenty-five!” Of course, what my father didn’t know was that my friend was a figment of my imagination.

Dad didn’t seem to mind my suggestion at all, as that grin of his reappeared.

“I understand, son. At least, I think I do. So that gives me three years or so to knock you into shape, then?” he laughed.

I nodded. He leant back in his chair, opened a drawer and pulled something out. He placed it on the tooled leather top of the desk. It wasn’t the cane though. It was a can of linseed oil.

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Brand spanking new fiction by your host, Rod Cayenne. All the characters are aged 18 or over. Strictly adults only!

It was the middle of the Harvest Festival celebrations in the sleepy village. Sun streamed in through the church’s ancient stained glass windows. The intoxicating aromas of incense and the festival flowers wafted all around the building. The balding vicar peered over the golden eagle lectern, tapping the microphone to make sure that it was working, and to get the congregation’s attention. Unfortunately, he accidentally gave the mike a harder swipe too, and after a howl of feedback it stopped working all together. Blast! That’s what comes of having a sherry or two so early in the day, he thought. He would now have to shout out his sermon, aided only by the boomy, resonant acoustics of the historic Norman church.

“Today I wish to address the important issue of discipline. Personal discipline, and resisting devilment and base urges to misbehave. Family discipline, self-discipline, respect, behaviour…” On and on he droned, “The bible is quite clear on this matter…We must never spare the rod…Although one must regret any institutional brutality, who here does not agree that society is missing the undeniable benefits of the crack of the leather, birch and cane?”

Murmurs of hearty agreement emerged from the unusually healthy numbers of men in the congregation. The regular prim and frumpy ladies nodded affirmatively too.

“In short…” he continued at length, “It is God’s way. The will of our good, good Lord. Verily, the Lord demands it. The heavens cry out for the return of the cane! The wrath of God’s almighty hand! Hymn number 364, ‘We Plough the Fields and Scatter.'”

Later on, at lunchtime in “The Shepherd’s Rest”, the vicar was accosted by Bernie Smith, one of the congregation that day. Bernie was universally popular and a famous local businessman. He tugged at the vicar’s sleeve, saying, “Can I get you a little something Vicar? I enjoyed your sermon today, very thought-provoking.”

“Yes, my pleasure. A sherry for the vicar, please landlord. And make it a big one please. Anyway, back to your sermon. It was about what you appeared to be advocating. I was wondering whether you thought my 21-year-old was too old for a taste of discipline? The little bugger swore at me. The C word.”

“Oh bless me!” said the vicar, ignoring the businessman’s use of the B word, “How very awful for you. Too old? Good Lord, no! It sounds to me like that lad needs a jolly sound caning.”

“Really, do you think so? Really? Still, it must be hard to find a cane these days. I suppose a riding crop…”

“Actually, they’re not so hard to find. The beauty of a good rattan cane is that it will last and last for years and years. Years and years of tears, a less charitable fellow might say. Let me let you into a dirty little secret of mine. You see, I have a fine collection of canes left from the days when choristers were kept firmly in line. The canes are still in good shape and very serviceable. In fact, they don’t get nearly enough use nowadays. Why not bring your boy round tomorrow and we’ll see if together we can’t knock some sense into him. I’m in all day.”

“Are you sure, vicar? I mean, are you suggesting that you’ll give him a hard caning for me?”

“Well no, I think we should both give him a good caning. But we do need to be very careful in this day and age. What I suggest is that I give him a stern telling off, and a bit of the old hellfire stuff as well, so that he actually asks for a caning himself. I’m sure the good Lord would approve of some swift retribution. In a merciful way, of course.”

“Of course.”

“We’ll do it and you can see what you think. Whether it’s effective on not. But surely, you’ll find it’s the former, yes, you’ll soon agree that a caning is most effective, I’m sure.”

So it was that on the very next day that father and son found themselves seated on the visitors’ side of the vicar’s desk in his dusty old study. On the desk laid a whippy rattan cane, its artisan-crafted crook handle and beautiful finish clearly indicating that this was no garden item.

“So, swearing and disrepect, was it? I hope I’ve made my displeasure clear. Can you suggest a way to make amends for your awful behaviour, Larry?” asked the vicar as he picked up and then flexed the cane with his bony hands.

“You’re not suggesting…” said Larry, his voice trailing off with disbelief as he stared at the cane being flexed right before his very eyes, “But it’s 2016, no-one gets caned these days. Not the cane. Not the cane.”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Larry. You are the one that’s been wholly abusive to your dear, loving father. The guilt is all yours. It’s up to you to offer suitable penance. The cane would seem to fit the bill, as I see it. Now, what’s it to be, sonny?”

“Not the cane.”

“Yes, the cane!”

“Alright, alright! I give in. Maybe you’re right. Perhaps I do deserve it. You can do it if you must. You won’t tell anyone else will you?”

“No, it will just be the three of us who know.”

“And not too hard!” demanded Larry.

“A caning has to be hard to be a real penance. But I’m a merciful man, so six of the best should suffice. Let’s get this over with,” the vicar sighed before barking, “Bend over the desk! NOW!”

Bernie Smith pushed his chair back a few feet as his son duly draped himself over the vicar’s desk. From his new position, Bernie would have a prime view of the imminent punishment.

“Stick your bottom out for the cane!” ordered the vicar. The first stroke sliced down rapidly. The pain soon hit young Larry, who for the life of him couldn’t believe the resulting heat and agony. Despite this he managed to keep quiet and still.

The second stroke was harder and showed real determination from the vicar. Larry cried out with shock, and the pain seemed to multiply, adding a vicious bite on top of the first stroke.

The third stroke was the killer. It cracked down noisily, causing Larry to yelp and leap up clutching at his throbbing, scorched arse cheeks.

“Get back down! Right now!” It was the vicar making the demands now. “Your father will take over now. I will make myself scarce as I believe he may wish you to drop your trousers and underwear for that little infringement. I’ve no wish to see your flesh.”

“What?”

“Yes, bare I’m afraid,” Bernie informed his son. The vicar for once was telling it like it was. He only liked the most smooth, hairless bottoms and he felt sure Larry’s would be a disgusting, hairy specimen. With the vicar out of the way, it was Bernie’s turn to make the demands. “I SAID BARE!” he shouted. Larry hurried to comply, pushing his chinos and briefs right down to his ankles.

The cane felt funny in Bernie’s hands. He swiped it through the air, enjoying both the sound and the menace it promised. The cane was so light and supple and it seemed like it could almost be gentle. But stroke four soon disabused both father and son of any such notion. Bernie sliced the cane down even harder than the experienced disciplinarian vicar had done. The resultant thwhack sound was most gratifying, although Bernie was less pleased when his son exclaimed, “Fuckin’ Hell!” (for it was truly a cane stroke from Hell).

A fifth stroke was delivered with the same skill and determination, and rather more physical effort. “Arrrghh Shit!” exclaimed Larry as the pain hit.

Stroke six crashed down almost immediately afterwards, accompanied by Larry shooting up from the desk, muttering “Fuck, fuck fuck!” and rubbing frantically at the wounded area.

Bernie Smith pushed his son back down over the desk, “You clearly haven’t learnt your lesson yet, Larry. You are still swearing, and here in the good vicar’s house too! I’m giving you three more strokes as a penalty!”

“No Dad, please!”

At that moment the vicar strolled back in, somewhat surprised to see Larry’s naked buttocks still being displayed. “Oh sorry! I thought you’d finished as I felt sure I’d heard three more strokes.”

“You did, but he’s been swearing again, vicar. So he needs to learn the hard way, I’d say. I’m giving him three more strokes.”

“Oh, I see. Well, in the circumstances, you do seem to be doing the right thing. I’d better go.”

“No, I’d be grateful if you’d stay vicar.”

The vicar stayed on, as invited. How he studied Larry’s pert arse! Six red cane lines adorned the flesh. And the bottom on display was much more delightful than he’d imagined, with hardly a hair in sight. That B word from the previous day crossed his mind, for some reason. He watched avidly as young Larry raised his bottom submissively, ready for a first encore courtesy of the rattan cane.

This time, his father tapped the cane on the bottom playfully before raising the rod high. The cane thrashed down viciously. Larry squirmed but remained silent. He would not swear! Or curse! Or sigh! He would take it like a man, he resolved. If he could!

A second encore landed in exactly the same place, and this time the young man could not help but squeal in helpless abandon.

The final stroke cracked home with absolute authority and absolutely no mercy. It was over. Larry gasped a “Thank you,” as he gently raised himself from the desk. He pulled his stripey briefs over his striped arse, and the the buff chinos followed.

“Well done, good man!” the vicar said. In a mistaken moment, young Larry thought he was talking to him to start with. But it was his father being congratulated with a hearty handshake and slap on the back. The vicar reached across to his sherry decanter and poured a stiff one for himself and one for Larry’s father.

“I’m so grateful, vicar. What a wonderful thing that cane is. Truly a blessing.”

“Yes indeed. I’d like you to keep that cane. Keep it at home, displayed prominently. Now, for it I only ask a small donation towards the church roof appeal fund.”

Mr Smith duly produced a crisp note from his moth-proof wallet.

“Oh no, my good man, not that small a donation!” the vicar exclaimed and winked slyly at the businessman. The donation was duly augmented and the sherries were downed in celebration of a most successful time. “Make sure you get your money’s worth, now. Don’t spare the rod!” The vicar beamed as he eventually saw his guests off the premises.

“Oh, you’ve no worries there, Vicar. I will get every last penny’s worth.”

Larry was dismayed. Obviously the cane would see more use if he wasn’t very, very careful. How embarrassed he was to walk back through the village with his cane-bearing father and with a throbbing arse. He rubbed and rubbed at his sore bottom and resolved to never, ever swear again. Despite this, he felt he had to pull a sulk, moaning to his father, “I don’t wanna see that fusty, musty old fool ever again!”

“You should have more respect for him after today’s events! Anyway, you won’t need to see him again now that I have this wonderful cane. I really don’t know how I managed without one before. It is truly a gift from God,” Bernie chuckled and resolved to himself that from now on he would cut his son absolutely no slack at all. The cane would reinforce this resolution. He decided to place the cane on the dresser on the landing. That way his son would see the cane every single time he left his bedroom, whether to go to the toilet or bathroom or just to go downstairs. The threat of the cane would be there all the time.

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D I S C L A I M E R

All characters and businesses appearing in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Just a quickie reminder again that May is National Masturbation Month! Make sure you do your bit to celebrate this month. I found out about it via a comment on the excellent Hermione’s Heart blog. The comment was from Ronnie, who also runs a great spanking blog, called Heart And Soul.

National Masturbation Month started in the US, but it seems to be taking hold everywhere. It is now sometimes referred to as International Masturbation Month.

It was founded in 1995 by Good Vibrations, a sex toy retailer. This was done as a protest about the firing of America’s first African-American Surgeon General, Joycelyn Elders. She was sacked for advocating the teaching of masturbation in sex education classes. She was a victim of bigots. You can read more at the wiki.

Almost everyone enjoys a little masturbation now and then, so grab yourself a piece of the action. Indeed, why not celebrate now as you read the kinky stories here at The Canery?

___________)

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This blog is intended for adults only. All listed sites, pictures displayed or referred to in this blog feature consenting adult models and players over the age of 18. All stories and artwork featured are fiction only and refer to adults in role play. This blog is not suitable for persons under the age of 18.

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The Cane

Many people use the rattan cane in their adult relationships. Sometimes this is for domestic discipline. Others use it to spice up their sex lives. Some just like recreating experiences from long ago. You will find fictional stories here which explore these themes. All the characters are aged 18 or over.

Disclaimer

All characters appearing in this blog are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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"We must embrace pain and burn it as fuel for our journey" - Kenji Miyazawa, author and poet (1896-1933)

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